


We all go up in flames (going out in style)

by SolainRhyo



Series: Earthling-Verse [2]
Category: Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Prime
Genre: Alone in the wilderness, Camping trip gone wrong, Decepticon rebellion, Discord in Decepticon ranks, F/M, Interspecies Relationship, Megatron gets a human pet, Megatron/You - Freeform, Mutiny, Partial integration into enemy ranks, Reader-Insert, Reader/Megatron - Freeform, Reader/Transformer, Transformer/You, Unexpected experiences, did I mention slow burn?, not a lot of fluff to be found here, sex with Megatron, super slow burn, this is not a happy kind of story, wounded Megatron
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 09:17:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20133046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolainRhyo/pseuds/SolainRhyo
Summary: You're enjoying a quiet evening at your favorite campground when fire and death rain down from the sky. What you thought was a downed aircraft becomes something else entirely, and you find yourself forcibly enlisted into becoming a guide to a wounded metal titan.





	We all go up in flames (going out in style)

You consider yourself an expert when it comes to roasting marshmallows. There’s a technique you learned from your grandpa when you were a kid that never fails you: hold the stick over the embers on the edge of the fire, never the flames. Count out ten seconds as you slowly rotate before you pull it away and there you go — perfectly roasted marshmallow, Phase One. You then pull off the hardened exterior and eat it, savoring the juxtaposition of the crispy shell and the hot gooey interior. Phase Two involves another round of roasting and eating, and so on and so forth until you get to whatever phase where there’s no more marshmallow left.

You’re currently on Phase Three and as you swallow a mouthful, you estimate you probably only have one phase left. That’s fine though, because this is your fourth marshmallow and the bag was supposed to last you the next five days. It’s doubtful it will. You decide to skip the next step and eat the rest of the melted marshmallow off your roasting stick before sticking it directly into the flames to sear the remnants away. It’s a fairly quiet evening — this campground is almost deserted, Tuesday as it is at the very beginning of summer. The isolated locale also lends itself to the lack of people, which is pretty much exactly why you’re here. You love camping. You love it even more the fewer people you have to see.

You hear snippets of conversation across the road, where the only other occupants of the campground are. It’s a family of five, two adults, two kids, one dog. You’ve exchanged greetings exactly once with the group and since then they’ve kept to themselves, which suits you perfectly fine. You can see them silhouetted by their own flickering fire as they sit around it, chatting amongst themselves. As a group they’re fairly quiet, the best neighbors you could have hoped for. You move your lawn chair back a little bit so you can stretch your legs out without burning the soles of your hiking boots. Dusk is well underway, the sky above the thick forest ringing the campground alternating shades of deep blues and purples. There’s no wind, which means the smoke from your fire billows up and away instead of directly into your face as campfire smoke tends to do. You’ll enjoy the evening a little longer and then turn in for the night. You plan on getting up at dawn in order to take a day-long hike and you’ll need all the rest you can get.

You close your eyes, enjoying the sounds or noticeable lack thereof. There’s the soft crackle of your fire, getting low about the embers and the faint chatter from the other campers. Other than that there’s nothing. Just… stillness. You find yourself getting sleepy and think that you should get up and retire to your tent for the night, but not yet. Not yet. You drowse for a bit, head lolling against your chest, until a noise pulls you back to awareness. It sounds like the drone of an airplane but somehow different; there’s a strange, high-pitched roar accompanying it. As you listen it grows louder, increasingly so, to the point where you realize something is very wrong. You scrabble up out of your chair and twist around, eyes searching the sky.

There it is—a crimson streak high above, a wound in the night sky. It’s elongating even as you watch, tracing a line downward. It’s going to strike the ground, you realize in alarm, backing up before realizing you could stumble into the fire. Whatever it is is close enough now to have some definition even in the dark, and there are visible plumes of smoke swelling out behind it. It _is _ an aircraft — and _holy fucking shit _it’s going to hit close, too close—

You’ve edged around the fire and you’re still backing away quickly and your eyes track the movement of the whatever it is as it continues its calamitous plummet. The sound is deafening now, the glowing red contrails bright enough to sear your eyes. Too late you think you should have run, and it _is_ too late, because this is the moment when impact happens. You’re knocked backward, landing hard on your ass, and you watch in utter horror as the aircraft skids across the ground, leaving behind flaming furrows and scorched earth. You bear witness as its momentum carries it directly through the other campsite, watch as it obliterates everything, leaving nothing but fire and smoke. Its trajectory takes it directly into the treeline and it plows through them as though they were made of toothpicks. It slows rapidly and comes to an abrupt halt out of your line of sight, leaving behind a vividly nightmarish hellscape.

You’re still on the ground, panting out of panic and terror. Your eyes are wide, too wide, fixed on the flaming wreckage that was the other occupied campsite, on the burning ruins of their RV trailer and vehicle. That they are dead is without question. That you aren’t is a pure fucking miracle. You need to _do _something. Anything. You push yourself up off the ground and find that your legs have all the strength of wet noodles; you take a step, wobble, and hit one knee. A deep breath and you stand again, another inhale and you walk forward, one jerky step at a time, heading for your vehicle. Your phone is in your pocket but it’s useless out here because there’s no signal, isn’t one within an hour’s driving distance, maybe even further. You need to notify the authorities, but the only way you can do that is to drive out of here.

You make it to your truck. It takes you three attempts to open the door because your fingers, numb with shock, keep slipping. You’re one leg into the truck cab when noise erupts behind you, from within the forest, and you’re back out in a heartbeat, staring in that direction. Unthinkingly you close the truck door and start to move, each step hesitant, fearful, knowing that whatever is in the trees is bad news but unable to curb the detrimentally powerful urge to _know. _

And then you see it, staggering out of the woods, a humanoid colossus. Moonlight strikes its surfaces, revealing the glint of metal tinged with fire, painted with char. That it is injured is obvious in the way it moves, its massive strides faltering, and you watch as it lists suddenly to the side, hitting both knees. It hunches over and falls still, perhaps marshaling whatever remaining strength it has, perhaps succumbing to its wounds. Either way, you need to not be here. You need to be somewhere else, _anywhere_ else, right fucking now. You half-turn, jogging back to your truck while looking over your shoulder. Somehow it senses you. Its head snaps up and you find yourself pinioned by a pair of glowing crimson eyes. There’s something deeply inimical in that gaze even from this far away, and that something is what brings you to a stumbling halt.

“Human,” the colossus rasps, and slowly gets to its feet.

You whip around and race back to your truck, feeling the ground tremble beneath your feet, knowing now just what direness that portends. You wrench open the door, hopping in and twisting the keys in the ignition all in one movement. Your eyes find the rear view mirror and _oh fuck me_ it’s definitely coming for you even though every step it takes has it teetering on the verge of falling over. The engine comes to life and your foot has the pedal almost flat to the floor, kicking up a spray of gravel as you careen out of your camping spot. You’ve got a white knuckle grip on the wheel, think briefly of the seatbelt, no, fuck the seatbelt, all that matters is putting distance between you and the whatever that thing is. And it seems like you’re actually doing so, because as your eyes flick rapidly between the mirror and the windshield you can see that you’re clearly putting some space between the two of you. Awesome. Great. Fantasti—

Nope. The road in front of you explodes suddenly in a burst of purple so bright that it blinds you. You scream, jerking the wheel and then everything is lost to chaos. Awareness deserts you, but when it returns you find yourself staring out the cracked windshield into darkness littered with hulking black shadows. Trees. Your fingers are clamped around the wheel and it takes a great deal of effort to convince them to let go. They ache. You slowly turn your head to see that the passenger side of your truck has been crumpled by impact with two large trees. You drove the truck off the road and sent it skidding down a steep bank to come to a violent stop here. You swallow and taste blood, feel a twinge of pain in your tongue. You’ve bitten it. You experimentally move the rest of your body, surprised you’re not dead or at least broken in one or more ways. Everything works more or less like it should but nothing feels right. Your movements are almost dreamy, ponderous, and the thought comes to you as though from far away that you’re well and truly in shock.

You get the door open and fall out of it. On your hands and knees you look up the incline and see the red-eyed titan standing at the top. It takes a lurching step down and slips; it claws at the trees and seizes one with long, tapered talons to slow its descent. You make an effort to get away, you do, but it seems your luck — which has been considerable, considering the events of the evening — has finally played out. You are unable to dodge its grasp because, wounded thought it is, it is terrifyingly swift. Fingers wrap around you, heft you into the air, squeezing as they do so and your cry is one of mingled pain and fear. It lifts you higher until its face is all you can see and those terrible fiery eyes are narrowed, focused upon you. It squeezes again and your agonized shout echoes throughout the forest.

“Silence!” it orders. Its fingers loosen after a moment and you suck in one trembling breath after another, unable to do anything for its hold on you but look right back at it. The features of its face are finely detailed, human-like, complete with plates that seem to function like eyebrows and a straight, thin line that is its mouth. There’s purple liquid seeping from the corner of that mouth and you notice there are large splotches of it elsewhere, too. Blood?

“Do you know this area, human?” It seems to have rediscovered its voice beyond the gritty rasp and it’s a very male sounding voice, albeit more than a little ragged. You don’t answer immediately because your brain is now firmly entrenched in damage control. Its —_ his — _eyes narrow further and it flexes one of the fingers encircling you as a distinct warning.

“Yes,” you manage to bleat.

“How well?”

“V-very,” you stammer. It’s the truth. You’ve been coming to this area to camp since you were a kid. You consider it a second back yard.

“Then you’ll do.” he says, and there’s a note of finality there that kicks your panic up another notch. “I need a place where I can recuperate, one that is difficult to locate. Show me where.”

Your thoughts are racing, touching on spots and discarding them until you think of one that might work. You wriggle in his grip; he lifts one finger away, granting you leeway to use your arms. You point further down the hill, into the forest. “West,” you say, voice shaking so hard you’re surprised it’s actually audible. “About fifteen kliks, in a gorge.”

He looks in the direction you’re pointing and then back at you. “You understand it will go poorly for you if you attempt to mislead me?”

Oh god, _yes_, you understand that. You would have understood it without him saying anything. You nod. “Good,” he says, and then begins to move. You are thoroughly unprepared for the experience, for being clutched tight in the hand of a wounded metal Goliath, for the way the world sways and pitches with each uneven step he takes. You push at his unyielding grip experimentally at first, but with gradually increasing desperation. He seems oblivious to your efforts. He stumbles more than once, careening into trees with enough force that they shake or groan ominously, before pushing himself away with muted noises of what could be exhaustion or pain or, judging from his condition, both. You cease struggling eventually because it’s now apparent that you lack the strength to make a difference. You are drenched in sweat from your exertions and from fear, and when you finally allow yourself to go limp, his eyes flick briefly to you.

There is only enmity in that gaze, primeval and unfettered. You can do nothing but stare back, unguarded and exposed to a thing that shouldn’t exist here in this reality, on this earth. When his gaze leaves you it’s almost as though you are freed from stasis, capable of thinking again. Not that those thoughts amount to much of anything other than to hammer home the realization that you are fucked. Well and truly fucked. Utterly fucked, because this is when the titan stumbles again and is unable to right himself. Clutched in his grip as you are, you too are made slave to fickle gravity and physics as he skids down the steep incline. He struggles, twists, grasps at the ground with those talons in an effort to slow and succeeds only in violently rending the earth. A large piece of moss-ridden deadfall lies in your path and he twists violently to avoid it, to no avail; he catches it with one outthrust leg and is launched into the air. When he collides again with the ground it is in an uncontrollable tumble that puts him at odds with every large, solid thing that comprises the forest.

You’re going to die.

You want to close your eyes but can’t, not that it would make a difference because all you see is an indecipherable swirl of color and movement. Collision with trees is unavoidable and it happens more than once and when it happens you feel it jolt through his body, transferred to you through his iron grip. For the second time this night time loses any and all meaning for you and you think that maybe you’re already dead, that maybe this is the transference of your soul from your body to whatever lies beyond. But it stops finally, stops all at once as he impacts with a tree too big and too old to submit to the combined force of his velocity and bulk. And then it’s over and it is far too silent and far too still. You breathe. That is all you do, emit shallow panicked gasps that struggle to leave the confines of your body.

Your captor is not moving, you realize once you’ve regained the ability to form coherent thought. His back is against the tree, legs splayed, the arm not holding you bent behind him. His head is bowed, eyes dark and devoid of light. Dead? You test that theory, pushing against his fingers. They give way, yes, bit by bit. You gain room to bring your legs up and then you push with them as well and suddenly his fingers loosen entirely and you fall into the unforgiving underbrush below with a startled shout. It hurts, but at least you’re not dead. You roll onto your knees and wince as thorns from wild roses rend your arms. Another small pain to be thankful for. You push yourself up onto your feet and wonder why your face is wet and realize that your eyes are leaking, tears caused from one of any of the negative emotions you’ve experienced tonight, or maybe even all of them. You wipe at them ineffectually and they won’t stop but that’s okay. You’re _alive_.

You take a step, stagger, recover, take another one. Okay. You can walk. Good. You’ve never before experienced this odd shakiness that has hijacked every part of your body so it takes some getting used to. You assume it will pass in time, but given what you’ve just been through, it wouldn’t surprise you if it’s now a permanent part of your life. You’d be okay with that. You could make peace with it. After a dozen steps you halt, wipe again at your insistent watering eyes, and half-turn to look at the titan. He is still motionless, still silent, hunched over. In your mind’s eye you see him in a hundred years, overtaken by vengeful nature, draped in the creeping vines of wild hops and buckwheat and obscured by needy saplings that demand room to grow. What a discovery that will be, you think, and then ponder whether your brain is a bit more rattled than you originally thought.

_Goodbye. _ You send a voiceless farewell to this creature that fell from the sky and changed everything mercilessly and irrevocably. It sounds strangely maudlin in your mind as you think it, which worries you. Your lights are on and someone’s home but it might take some time for everything to sort itself out. _Goodbye._

One step in front of the other. This is how you coach yourself; this is how you survive. It’s a mantra you adhere to more diligently than any other creed you’ve ever accepted in your life and it serves you well. You lack the strength to conquer the uphill slog so you’re continuing in the titan’s trajectory: down. Down to the river you know that waits there, and then when you’ve recovered some, up again. Up until you find one of the many simple dirt access roads that snake through this area. Keep walking. Except, you come to realize, you aren’t walking anymore. You are simply standing, staring blankly ahead, wondering when this ringing in your ears began. A strange compulsion overtakes you, skittering its way up your spine and you find yourself turning back to face the colossus. He is as he was before to your unexperienced gaze: lifeless. Shuttered. Silent.

You stare at him, measuring time by the slow blinks you take. Your eyes are dry now, but so is your mouth. Your pulse is thready and nausea roils in your stomach. This duress you feel, unfamiliar and unwelcome, controls you now. You sit down, the fauna of the forest floor surrounding you, a fey circle that belongs in a much less terrifying fairy tale. Seated, dazed, utterly unsure of capricious reality, you wait. You wait until your eyes tire, and then you doze, slipping in and out of dreams that cannot possibly be as bad as the memories you’ve accrued over the last hour.

Noise. Your eyes snap open. The titan is moving slowly, one limb at a time, experimenting. He ascertains full if limited autonomy and then his head lifts and those red eyes flicker once, twice, out of focus. They move to the left, searching, and then to the right and that is when they find you, seated amid bushes and ferns. Rigid metal brows flit upward briefly before descending again.

“You should have run, little one.” His voice is slow to come, frayed at the edges, but it commands your attention all the same.

Mute, you watch as he stands. He can only do so in bits, transitioning first to one knee and then, gripping the old tree for support, to his feet. You rise as well. He stands there a long while, leaning on the tree, eyes pinned on something in the distance. He is lost in thought. You remain where you are, filled with a patience you do not like, a patience you do not fathom, until that red gaze alights on you again.

Wordlessly you point down, to the west.

**.x.**

He is more careful now, choosing where he steps, plotting a route that allows him support by way of trees to hold on to. He carries you in much the same way he did before, except you now have the ability to freely move your arms. It is slow going—incredibly so, you expect, for him given his size. Still, it is progress, and that seems to be all he is concerned with. His sense of direction is impressive and there are only a couple of times that he looks to you for confirmation that he is still going the right way. Every time you find yourself on the receiving end of that fell gaze your heart stutters and your mind blanks, until some primal, instinctive part of you kicks things into gear again lest you anger him. You point the way and he continues, down toward the gorge.

Eventually the incline levels out and the trees begin to thin, heralding the river that lies ahead. With fewer trees to lean on, the titan has to slow his pace even further and walks with a distinct, rolling limp. The river comes into view, vast and swift, coming from the south and taking a wide turn to the west. Over the eons it carved its passage into the great, forested hills surrounding it, creating a canyon, miles long, that is popular in the summer months for those who like to kayak and raft. It is too early in the year for those activities; the river is swollen with runoff from thawing snow, making it dangerous. Your captor comes to a halt at the bank of the river and lifts you to eye level, arching one brow in expectantly.

“That’s the gorge,” you tell him, pointing yet again to the west. Your voice is hoarse from hours of disuse. “A couple of kliks that way and there’s an offshoot channel. It’s hard to see if you don’t know where to look.”

He lifts his eyes, staring off in the direction you’re indicating. “How populated is this area with your kind?” he questions.

You shake your head. “Right now, not very. But give it another couple of weeks and that will change.”

He’s silent, considering. Finally he stirs, taking one step out into the water. The current is strong and you can feel him brace against it. He pauses.

“It’s narrower up there.” You gesture south. “You can cross there and then follow the bank into the gorge.”

You think maybe you should have kept your trap shut, because something very akin to ire creases his face and you hold your breath, fearing to know what form his anger manifests itself in. He does as you direct, however, reversing his direction and moving upriver until he finds the narrow part you’d mentioned. He crosses here and does so carefully, ensuring that every step he takes is planted firmly in the river bed before taking another. The current is stubborn, powerful, and he sways a bit against it as he progresses. Visions of him being swept up in the rushing waters with you still clutched in his hand fills your mind and your body tenses. You make a determined effort to stare straight ahead and not down at the water. When he finally steps up onto the bank on the other side, you breathe an inaudible sigh of relief.

He slowly enters the gorge, doing as you’d advised and staying close to the river’s edge. It’s not easy going despite his size and strength and occasionally he slips and has to fight to balance himself against the push of the water. At one point he falls to one knee, sending up a spray of shockingly cold water that douses you completely. You shake your wet hair out of your face, spluttering, as he regains his feet without even a glance in your direction. He is entirely focused now on reaching his destination. And what happens then, you’re suddenly forced to wonder? What happens to you once he reaches the place where he can lay low? You’re still utterly bewildered by your decision not to run when you had the chance — you’d been beset by an urge to watch this strange new reality unfold before you without thinking of just what that could really mean. As perplexed as you are by your own behavior and the presence of this creature that should be an impossibility, you are very certain of one thing: your life hangs in precarious balance now, subject to _his _whims.

You can do nothing other than watch the passing scenery. You keep your eyes peeled for a particular landmark, a huge and sharply angular rock jutting up from the near center of the river. It’s been a couple years since you’ve rafted the river but you’re fairly certain you can remember the exact spot you told him about. Your memory doesn’t fail you, because a while later you spot the rock rising from the river, obvious and unmistakable. You rap on his knuckle. His eyes immediately flick down to you. Mutely you point toward the south wall of the gorge. You can see the outline of the offshoot channel, a dark void nearly hidden by the shadows thrown by the opposite wall of the canyon. The titan alters his course, getting close enough to the stone that he can place his free hand upon it. He leans on it a little, clearly taxed by the effort he’s expended thus far. Eventually the stone beneath his hand disappears, and then he’s standing before the gap in the wall. He eyes it for a moment before proceeding through, and he has to do so carefully due to his size. You worry he won’t be able to fit but he manages to do so, squeezing in by turning sideways. The passageway beyond is narrow enough that his shoulders scrape, but it widens soon enough, abruptly spilling into a large circular space that’s draped in shadow. It’s not a dead end, exactly — well, not for you, as there’s a daunting switchback hand-and-foot trail that leads out of the gorge, a trail you’ve tackled only once. For the colossus, however…

“This is it.” you say as he surveys the area. Water hasn’t flowed in this channel for a very long time and absent its destructive influence, vegetation has taken hold. Smaller trees capable of growing in consistent shade and rocky soil had flourished, along with shrubs and assorted broadleaf plants. You’d camped down here once before, years ago. You and your boyfriend at the time had spent the day kayaking the river and set up your tent here instead of continuing on in the dark. This place invokes pleasant memories because of that trip, but you suspect that is about to change.

Apparently it meets the titan’s standards, because he nods once and steps into the open, tilting back his head. The sky is visible, blue and decorated with clouds, but it’s late enough in the day that the sun has moved out of the limited field of view. After another quick scan of the area he bends slightly, loosing his fingers and setting you down. You stumble to the side as he steps away from you, astonished to have your freedom. He circles the perimeter once, twice, and then finally comes to a halt, sliding to the ground with the stone wall at his back. Even as foreign as he looks to you, it’s clear that he’s completely worn out. He leans his head back against the rock and becomes still. Is he sleeping?

After a few minutes you decide to move, taking a few experimental steps with your eyes glued on him. He doesn’t stir. You’re confused. Are you free to go? You did as he’d ordered — you’d brought him to a hard to find place where he can recuperate. Maybe you’re no longer needed, which would be awesome. You take a few more steps. No response. Growing braver, you stride to the far edges of the clearing with the full intent of going right back out to the river. But you find yourself halting before stepping into the offshoot passage, your actions reined in by that same unwanted, inexplicable urge to remain, to wait and see. You try to fight it off by using logic — you can and probably will end up dead if you stay. And who’s to say this isn’t some kind of fucked up test on his behalf? You war with yourself internally until finally, with a defeated sigh, you turn around.

He’s watching you through slitted eyes, their crimson color eerily enhanced by the surrounding shadows. You forget how to breathe momentarily; once you remember, your lungs attempt to catch up with quick, rapid gasps. He says nothing, remains unmoving, but when you finally take hesitant steps forward, he tracks your movement. You swallow hard and try to focus on the only thing that matters, which is survival. To that end, you need food. The last time you’d been here, your boyfriend had found young saskatoon bushes growing around the edges of the clearing. A thorough inspection by you now reveals they’re still here and what’s more, have flourished. You’re able to gather a small feast as the branches are loaded with the dark berries, most of them fat to the point of splitting. You pop a handful into your mouth and chew, aware that you’re still being watched. Saskatoons are a polarizing food—the gritty texture tends to put people off despite the pleasant taste. Fortunately you love them and have loved them since you were a kid.

Once you’ve eaten your fill, you debate what to do next. You need water. You could risk drinking from the river but would prefer not to. There’s a spring about an hour’s hike to the southwest, the water there pretty much as fresh and clean as you can find on earth. Dusk will be here in an hour or two. You can go the night without water but tomorrow it will become imperative. You gnaw your lip, trying to reach a decision but it’s proving impossible considering well, _everything_. Finally you blow your breath out in a frustrated sigh and turn to face your captor. He’s still regarding you through those narrowed eyes, but then he moves, extending his hand palm up. Your eyes flick from his hand to his face and back again and then you can’t help but glance over your shoulder to the passage that leads out of here. You could still—

“You had the chance,” he says, whipping your head back around. The corner of his mouth tilts up slightly. “You squandered it. Wisely, I might add.”

So then his ‘sleep’ was feigned. It angers you as much as it frightens you. If you’d tried to bolt, he likely would have ended your life with one swat of his hand. Beset with a strange, unwise courage, you speak up.

“I need water.”

“Humans need a great many things just to survive.”

“Don’t you?”

His smile widens. “No, little one. All I need to survive already flows within me.” He makes a fist and raps on his chest.

Unwisely, you opt to goad him. “But you’re wounded.”

His smile fades, mouth twisting into a bitter knot, a mercurial and frightening shift in expression. He braces himself on one hand and leans over until his visage fills the entirety of your vision. “So I am,” he says in a low voice, “but not for long. Already my frame works to repair itself. It is only a matter of time before I regain my full strength.”

You can feel his breath (if that’s what it is) warm against you with each word he speaks. Rapt under his attention, you ask in a voice barely more than a whisper, “And what then?”

That smile again, a faintly malevolent curve of the lips. “And then I mete out my retribution.”

You want to ask against who and the reasons why but instinct screams at you that the less you know in this circumstance, the better. As though sensing your internal dialogue, he makes a low, rich sound almost like a chuckle. He straightens, leaning back against the rock, looking down on you. “Until then, you shall act as my guide.”

You were afraid that’s where this was going. “And after?”

He gives no response and wears no expression, and somehow that’s even more alarming than anything else would be. You try to marshal your courage in the face of what you’re pretty sure is going to be your death. “If you want my help, I’m going to need water. And food.”

He inclines his head almost lazily, says with a mocking edge, “Whatever you require.”

_Fuck you. _You have to bite down on your lip to stop yourself from speaking it aloud. He extends his hand again, palm up. You stare at it for a long span of moments, wishing you’d left him in the forest, wishing you’d never left home. Finally you move, stepping up onto his hand. He doesn’t lift it as you expect; instead his fingers close around you, effectively trapping you within. The gaps between his fingers are too narrow for you to squeeze through. You stare out through those spaces as though through the bars of a cage.

“I advise getting some rest, little one.”

It’s clear he’s going to do the same. Silence falls and he does not move, clearly lost to whatever his version of slumber is. It’s a long time before you do as he suggested, curling up on your side and waiting for impossible sleep to claim you.

**.x.**

**Author's Note:**

> If you made it this far, thanks so much for reading. This is a side project to my Reader/Ultra Magnus side project, (which is really more of a main project now). If you've followed me here from the UM fic, thanks so much for taking the time to see what else I can do. It means a lot. 
> 
> The setting for this is based loosely on areas I grew up in/have spent a lot of time in, but I've taken some liberties with certain aspects of nature because, well, this is fanfiction. Never written Megatron before but I've had a thing for him since way back in the 80s so I guess it's about time I got around to this.


End file.
